Lion Among The Lambs
by Lady Chal
Summary: He agrees to meet her not out of courtesy, but curiosity. He wants to know what made Harmon Rabb come beg him for a plane ticket and a hitchhiker's guide to Paraguay. He wants to meet the woman Clayton Webb was willing to die for.


**Disclaimer:** Not mine, not making any money off of them so DPB please don't sue!

**Rating:** PG

**Spoilers:** Persian Gulf

**Summary:** "He agrees to meet with her not out of courtesy, but curiosity. He wants to find out what it was that made Harmon Rabb quit the Navy and come begging him for a plane ticket and a hitchhiker's guide to Paraguay. He wants to meet the woman that Clayton Webb was willing to die for." –A look at the events of "Persian Gulf" through Harrison Kershaw's eyes.

**Author's Note:** I think I should start out by stating that while Webb and Mac are a couple in this, this is really a Kershaw story. I was fascinated by Kershaw from the moment he was introduced in "Pas de Deux" and as far as I am concerned he only gets better each time he shows up. I think one of the reasons that I like him so much is the fact that he reminds me very much of Webb, and he is basically the kind of person that I think Webb is likely to become in another twenty years or so. His scenes with Mac in "Persian Gulf" were stellar, and they got me thinking: What was Kershaw's take on Mac? What did he really feel about Van Dyne's death? And what was he thinking while these events were unfolding? I think that like Webb, there is a great deal more to Kershaw than meets the eye, and this is my little attempt to answer some of those intriguing questions.

**Lion Among the Lambs**

**By Lady Chal**

_Alexandria__, __VA___

He agrees to meet with her not out of courtesy, but curiosity. Twenty-six years in the intelligence business and seventeen negotiating the paths and pitfalls of Washington politics have taught him that courtesy doesn't mean a damned thing in this town. He easily could have passed her request down through the proper channels for lesser operatives to deal with, but the truth is that he wanted to meet her. He wants to find out what it was that made Harmon Rabb quit the Navy and come begging to him for a plane ticket and a hitchhiker's guide to Paraguay.

            He wants to meet the woman that Clayton Webb was willing to die for.

            He tells her to meet him at two o'clock and gives the address to the brownstone, timing it so that she will arrive just as he is departing for a meeting with Homeland Security. He will give her precisely two minutes to state her case, the urgency of his schedule leaving him a comfortable opportunity for evasion. He will not have to invite her in, to allow her to get her "foot in the door," so to speak. Nor can she accompany him. There will be no time for her to learn anything of value, but just enough for him to discover all he needs to know.

            She is everything that he had expected, and yet she still surprises him. He had known that she was beautiful. He's seen her file, and the passport photographs that were taken for Paraguay. He had deduced that she was intelligent. Her dossier provided a full accounting of her skills and her educational background, including her college transcripts and high school aptitude tests. –Tests that revealed the keen, perceptive mind hiding behind the less-than-stellar scores of a very troubled young girl. He had known that she was courageous. Her service record indicated several commendations for valor, and it wasn't just any woman who was willing to put themselves through the kind of indescribable torture she had witnessed to spare a man already as close to death as Webb had been. Even so, she takes him off guard.

            As he greets her and explains his hurry, closing the door behind him, she gives no indication of anger or irritation. Rather, she seems to expect it. The corner of her mouth pulls back slightly in a taut, wry smile and a hard glint shines in the deep-set brown eyes, as if to say that she expected nothing less. Webb has trained her well.

            He amends that conclusion as he fishes in his pocket for the key to the brownstone and struck between the shoulder blades by her blunt, forceful demand.

            "I need to locate Agent Van Dyne."

            Perhaps "trained" is not the right word. "Prepared" might be more accurate. She is used to dealing with men like him. It has only honed her skill and determination to pry from their grasp the information she believes she requires.

            "The CIA does not discuss the whereabouts of its employees, Colonel Mackenzie." His tone is patient, his actions smooth as he turns the key in the lock, securing the front door of the brownstone.

            "You think I don't know that? I'm dating one of your agents. –At least I would be …if he was ever here." This time there is irritation in her voice. It is an indication that she is troubled by Webb's long absence, and he silently makes note of it. She cares something then about Webb's presence in her life. 

He has not yet decided if that is good or bad.

"Well, your work with Agent Webb in Paraguay was outstanding," he says as he carefully slips the key back into his pocket. "That's why I agreed to see you. It's a shame that Sadik Fahd got away."

"Where is Agent Webb?" Her tone is challenging, almost belligerent, but he can also hear the concern that lies beneath it. Webb has been gone for over a month, reestablishing his old contacts in Pakistan, Afghanistan and Kuwait and trying to pick up Fahd's scent on a trail gone cold. He cannot possibly answer her question …but he can speak to her worry.

"Oh…" he waves a vague hand as he carefully selects his words, "safe…busy. –More than that, I can't tell you."

She is relieved by his answer, but by no means appeased.

"Well then tell me this, is Agent Van Dyne missing, or are you just not telling me where he is?"

His respect for her goes up another notch even as he scrambles to counter and ends up tossing out the tired old chestnut:

"That's classified, Colonel."

She scowls. "Don't give me that. The location of your bathroom is probably classified."

He can't help but smile at her sharp banter. He's beginning to understand why Webb is smitten.

"I warned the agency about Van Dyne a month ago."

The smile vanishes from his features. "That warning never trickled up to me."

"Twenty four absolutely perfect two carat diamonds are unaccounted for. That's terrorist currency, worth a million dollars on the open market.  –And Van Dyne was the last person to have them."

The words strike a cold blow to the pit of his stomach and before he can help himself, he glances away, but recovers quickly as he makes his decision. He levels his gaze squarely upon her, assessing each nuance of her expression.

"I share your concern about the diamonds …and if I bring you in on the Van Dyne case…"

"Mmm… so there is a case." The knowing light of triumph sparks in her eyes, but he ignores it. He neither confirms nor denies, but merely continues with his clearly determined expectations.

"…I want to know _immediately_ when you find them. –Or if you don't."

Suddenly remembering that they are holding this sensitive discussion in the middle of an open street, he pauses to wait until a by-passer is out of earshot before granting her what she came to him for. 

"Agent Van Dyne is dead. We found his body in his apartment two days ago." The words, so calmly spoken, belie the quiet anger that seethes within him.

"But no diamonds."

He shrugs. "We weren't aware he had any."

"He passed them on already," she muses, her suspicion of all things "company" evident in her assumption. She is quick to pass judgment. It is the only character flaw he has found so far. It is a minor one in the scope of things, but one that he is uncomfortable with in this instance. He stood in that apartment and looked upon the body of his fallen agent with his own eyes. He does not like to think Casper Van Dyne a traitor. –Not yet, anyway.

"It's possible he may not have." He says slowly as he himself wonders just how much he is going to tell her –and why he is telling her at all.

"What makes you say that?"

He hesitates, having an inkling of how his words will affect her. He spoke to Webb this morning over the satellite link and still has not forgotten the lengthy silence or the intensity of the strained voice when Webb finally managed to ask if they had any leads. It's the only time he has ever seen Clayton Webb's infamous composure at risk of failing him. He keeps his eyes steady upon hers as he tells her.

"Agent Van Dyne was tortured to death."

 The impact is instantaneous, and she reels back slightly, a myriad of emotions flooding across her face, but she quickly recovers and he forges on with his explanation.

 "Frankly I couldn't understand why …until now. I mean he wasn't entrusted with the kind of secrets you'd die to protect. But I didn't know about the diamonds. It is possible he died for not revealing where they are."

The brown eyes narrow as she turns this over in her mind.  "What aren't you telling me?"

She's good, he realizes. –As good as Rabb –almost as good as Webb. But he can't afford to study it further. She's getting too close to the truth.

"Quite a lot, I'm sure." He brushes past her, retreating to the safety of the limousine. "--Excuse me."

"But there's something else worrying you." She allows him to pass her, but takes hold of the car door as he gets in, slowing his escape.

"Oh, there's always a lot of chatter on our networks," he says as he climbs into the car. His words are easy and dismissive, but she is not fooled.

"About what? Something big for sale? –Something you could buy with diamonds?"

He meets her questions with silence. She can help him if she knows, but he is bound by his duty to maintain the secret. She's going to have to figure it out on her own.

She hesitates as she considers the possibilities. "Something chemical? …Biological? …Nuclear?"

Bingo.

"I just want to find those diamonds, Colonel." He reaches for the door handle, pulling it shut then orders his driver to pull away.

He keeps his eyes glued upon road ahead. He does not need to look back to know she is still standing there, watching him.

Closing his eyes he thinks about the diamonds and Van Dyne, and Webb …and finally, the woman left standing on the curb behind him. 

–The woman whom he's just set upon the trail of a ruthless, fanatical killer.

–The woman that Webb loves.

He wonders if he has done the right thing.

***

_CIA Headquarters_

_Langley__, __VA___

It's lonely at the top.

He stares through the dark reflections of his office window to the silent, moonlit grounds where the dark, waving sculpture inscribed with its streams of gibberish casts eerie shadows on the smooth gray pavement, and feels the weight of responsibility lying heavy upon his shoulders. He misses the days when he was just another agent, young and eager to crack the big case … to solve the impossible mystery … to break the unbreakable code. In daylight, when the weather is pleasant, he often sees the sculpture garden teaming with analysts and agents, idly decrypting the secret messages hidden in the sculpture's mysterious etchings as they eat their lunch. Each string is a different pattern, a different code and it's become a favorite pastime among the Agency's employees to see who can figure out the entire puzzle.

To his knowledge, only one has ever done it.

He supposes that the first time he ever saw Clayton Webb, it was in that garden, but he cannot pinpoint the time, or day or season. He was simply one of the dozens that came, and sat day after day in the garden's quiet sphere. However, he vividly remembers the day he first took notice of the man.

It was October, cold and rainy, and damp puddles shown upon the pavement and the hollows of the benches like molten silver. The sides of the sculpture were dark and wet, and the sculptured shrubbery had lost its leaves, affording little protection from slicing wind. The grounds were deserted, the last of the usual lunch time picnickers having wisely called an end to the season and retreated to the warmth of the cafeteria or their offices for their meals. And so he was surprised when he suddenly glanced out and saw the lone man in the long dark overcoat standing beside a bench and studying the sculpture. Day after day, balmy or cold, rain or snow or sun, the man never failed to make an appearance. As December turned to January and the temperatures dropped ever more steadily, he didn't stay as long. –Fifteen minutes or so at most, but he always came.

And then one day he didn't.

The reward for decrypting the entire statue –a week in the Bahamas—has never been claimed. Nevertheless, he knows that Webb has done it. A mind that would pursue such a problem day after day into summer heat, drenching rains or icy winter snow would not rest unless it has finally achieved the satisfaction of an answer. But of far more interest to Harrison Kershaw was the man who possessed such a mind and yet left that prize unclaimed, for that was the kind of man who could not be bribed or purchased. Here was a man that required no reward or acclamation, a man who could do great things and yet be content with the solitary knowledge of his accomplishment. 

When the whispers of terrorist activity in South America started filtering across the wire, when the word of agents dying every other week began to prove just how compromised the CIA's South American network was, Harrison Kershaw had spent many an hour at his office window, staring out at that statue and had known that there was really only one person whom he could think to send. His only regret is that he had to nearly destroy him to do it.

            But then, they do not call him the Puppet Master for nothing.

            Even Norman Watts has no idea or suspicion of the lengths he went to in engineering the demise of Clayton Webb's career. If he had, Kershaw has little doubt that he'd have been packed off to Suriname along with Webb. In retrospect, it was really quite simple. He had been around long enough to know which closets the skeletons were kept in –including those belonging to the DCI. 

A quiet word in the ear of a still-grieving daughter at a cocktail party on Capitol Hill was all it had taken to re-open the watery grave of the Angel Shark. A high-ranking senator, she had run --as he'd known she would-- to her old friend Edward Sheffield. The Secretary of the Navy had wasted little time in instructing JAG to hold an inquiry, and the chess match between the Navy and the CIA had been drawn along predictable lines. He had known that AJ Chegwidden, wanting his best people on the job, would assign Rabb to the case. He had been counting on it.

            Another quiet word to the boss, reminding the DCI that Rabb possessed his own in-roads to the Agency was all it had taken for Webb to be called upon Watts' carpet and issued a stern warning. The rest played out as he had expected. Rabb sought out Webb for help. Webb rebuffed him. Rabb upped the ante, making Watts nervous enough to instruct Webb to talk sense into his friend. What Norman Watts had not counted on – and what Harrison Kershaw had—was the bold moral compass of Harmon Rabb, ever pointing true North and the silent, sometimes wavering one of Clayton Webb that so desperately longed to follow it in spite of what his job demanded. 

            His own heart's compass had spun a bit that crisp November night, as he had stood in Webb's darkened office with that video tape in his gloved hand. Even as he had placed it in the center of the desk, barren save for the computer monitor and the small, silver framed portrait of Porter Webb, he had hated himself for doing it. That small, innocuous black plastic cassette held far more than Norman Watts' shame, or resolution and peace of mind for those families of the Angel Shark. It also held the destruction of a single man, a skilled and talented operative, and one of the select few that Kershaw deemed worthy enough to someday lead the agency. But if there was to be an agency left to lead, then the sacrifice must be made. The leaks must be stopped.

            The pragmatist within him reminded him that Webb still had a choice. He did not have to use it. Odds were very good that he might destroy the tape as easily as hand it off to Rabb, and within that choice lay the final test. Was Clayton Webb the type of man who would be willing to sacrifice himself and be willing to do it for absolutely no reward or gain? The answer to that question was one that Harrison Kershaw desperately needed to know. For if Webb was not that man, then he was also not the man who could go into South America with the network leaking like a sieve and hope to bring down Sadik Fahd.

            Clayton Webb had indeed been that man.

            He'd been somewhat surprised by the pang of guilt that had assailed him as he'd cut the orders for Suriname and issued them to the disgraced agent, standing silent and stone-faced before him. Even then, part of him had wondered if such subterfuge had been necessary, if he shouldn't have simply asked Webb to take the case, or at the least, let the man be aware of the reasons for his own destruction. 

As always, the hardnosed intelligence chief squelched the dissenting inner voices within him and silenced their doubts. Frankly, he just couldn't chance Webb refusing the mission. Webb knew the players and the country, and the fact of the matter was that there was no one else of his caliber currently available that was up to the task. Ship him out before Thanksgiving to the worst South American appointment he could find and he had little doubt that Webb would be begging for this suicidal opportunity by Christmas. It was a harsh tactic, but certain to be effective.

 Furthermore, he reminded himself, it was safer this way. Even if he wanted to tell Webb of the set-up which had been perpetrated, he knew that he couldn't, if not for his own sake, then for Webb's. Clayton Webb must believe in the reality of his situation, if only for his own good. And not only must Webb believe it, but so must everyone else. 

Kershaw had not been certain of just how far the leaks had penetrated up the Company's chain of command, but he knew that it went a damned sight farther than Edward Hardy's slipshod little operation in Ciudad del Este. Far better, he thought, that Webb should arrive in South America in disgrace with the word of his exile and the whispered reasons behind it filtering through every hidden pathway of the Agency's vast informational network. A credible agent, with such authority and reputation as Webb had heretofore possessed would be a marked man in Raul Garcia's back yard and lucky to survive the week. Not so, however, for one banished and sent to dwell in disgrace in a third-world backwater. A beaten man would not pose a threat, would not be taken seriously by those double agents who had insinuated themselves within the confidence and protection of the Company. It might not be pleasant, but it would be safer for Webb if he were not to be taken seriously. It would also serve to set his cover. –Not with Garcia or Fahd, but with the traitor that lurked within the CIA's fold --the wolf in sheep's clothing. …Or in this case, the lynx. He recalls somewhere that that is the most direct translation of Sadik Fahd's name into English: Lynx. 

Pulling himself away from his window it's reflections upon the past and the guilt that accompanies it, he turns back to the laptop that awaits him on his desk, the screensaver pulsating with a soft, multi-colored glow. Tracing his finger over the touchpad, he opens the files until seven faces stare back at him from the dull light of the liquid crystal screen. As a collective, they were among the bravest, most intelligent, quick witted and deadly men ever to serve their country. Some of them he knew personally, others only by reputation. Yet to him, they are more than just his agents sent forth to do his bidding. They were his students; his protégé's ...his children …his lambs. 

And somewhere, out there in the darkness beyond his window, the Lynx is waiting to strike at them again.

***

_Twenty four hours later…_

_CIA Headquarters_

_Langley__, __VA___

            The intercom on his desk buzzes softly. "Sir, Director Stone is here to see you."

            He does not turn from the window, but reaches behind him to stab the talk button as he makes his careless response.

            "Send him in."

            A sliver of golden light appears in the dark mirror of the window glass. It widens, then narrows and disappears as the door is closed softly behind the newcomer. He listens for the soft yet heavy tread of the footsteps across his carpet, waiting until they stop, a short distance from his desk. The small lamp that burns on the credenza beside the door casts just enough light into the room to illuminate the man's figure in the window's reflection – a hulking, ominous shadow outlined against the golden radiance of the lamp.

            "Well?" He asks, impatient for the word.

            Behind him, Stone sighs heavily. "I emailed you our findings, but it appears she was right. Casper had the diamonds. He was playing Marvalis; probably playing her, too." A brief pause, and then a soft curse as Stone finally gives voice to their greatest fear. "Shit boss, it looks like he was playing all of us."

            Silence is his only response. He still does not understand it. He does not want to believe that Van Dyne was a traitor, but the missing diamonds –diamonds that were not reported—certainly give substance to Mackenzie's suspicions. 

            He turns now to look at the mountain that is Gabriel Stone, the closely cropped jet-black hair looks harried, and the blue eyes are hard and cold as chips of ice. The granite jaw is tense. His Director of Operations is angry …and worried, but they can't afford the time for emotion now. There will be time for that later. Now their only focus must be the job ahead. He cocks his head slightly at Stone, his expression grim.

            "I don't give a damn what it _looks _like, Gabe. I want to know what it _is_. Stay on it. I want you to scour every inch of Van Dyne's life until you know for sure. If he was the leak, we need to be certain, because if he's not…"

            "Then mole is still out there." Stone finishes.

            He nods briefly. "What about Mackenzie?"

            "She's downstairs with the techs right now." Stone shifts, slightly uneasy. "And I can't say the Feds are happy about it. What do I tell them?"

            He sighs heavily. "I have Catherine looking into it."

            Stone scowls. "I need an answer for them now, boss. They're s raising hell about control and jurisdiction and I'm not so sure they don't have a valid point."

            His reply is sharp. "Tell them they have jurisdiction. And they can control any goddamned thing they want to …except for her. Mackenzie is ours."

            Stone scratches his head and offers him a wry smile. "Well, technically she's JAG's…"

            "Tonight, she's ours," he reiterates, but then pauses to allow a small, sly smile. "On the other hand, if they really have a problem with jurisdiction, we could always invite NCIS to the party."

            The smile is returned. "I'll mention that," Stone says, and glances at his watch. "I'd better get going, I've got a joint briefing to prepare for."

            "I'll see you downstairs," he says. It is both a dismissal and subtle reminder that he intends to stay involved in this operation every step of the way. The Director of Operations nods his understanding and turns to go.

            "Gabe," he calls after him. Stone halts with his hand upon the door and looks over his shoulder inquiringly.

            "No mistakes out there tonight," he warns. "I want Sadik, but I also want you to make it perfectly clear to everyone that her safety is tantamount. If anything happens to her, they'll answer to me."

            The big man smiles again, but this time it is cold and there is no trace of humor in it. "If anything happens to her," he declares, "we'll answer to Webb."

            He turns back to his desk and glances down at the file that lays open in the middle of his blotter. Turning through the pages, he stops at the photographs and forces himself to study the lifeless features, burned and mutilated almost beyond recognition. 

_"Whoever said you cannot get blood from a stone was wrong."_

            The dead man's words, soft and gravelly drift casually through his memory, and it is only now that he fully understands Casper Van Dyne's private distaste for the glittering gems that were his specialty.

But the more important than what can or cannot be gotten from a stone, is what Sadik Fahd got out of Van Dyne. Even without Mackenzie's confirmation, he knows it is Sadik. He was sure of it. So is Webb, who for the last two days has been frantically trying to beg, borrow, or steal a ride home from the Middle East. Alan Blaisdell has already called him twice today, raising hell about Webb trying to shanghai his pilots and divert his flights. –As if his own authority could really make a difference from half a world away.  He has told Webb to stay put, but he knows he won't listen. Everyone has a demon that drives them, and Webb's is Sadik Fahd.

…As is Sarah Mackenzie's.

Obviously that is one of the things Van Dyne must have given up to Sadik: the identity of the woman who tricked and defied him, destroying his carefully laid plans. It is the most likely explanation for how Sadik found her. Van Dyne knew who she was. He tutored her for Paraguay, and he met with her privately when she came seeking help with the Marvalis diamonds.

Those goddamned diamonds.

_'What were you thinking __Casper__? What in the hell were you trying to do?'_

Likely, he will never know, but it doesn't matter now. At the moment, the only thing that matters is capturing Fahd, and to do it, they must play another card, dangle another gem, and spring the trap a deadly killer has set.

They don't have much time. Sarah Mackenzie must leave for the night club soon. He can only pray that she is up to this. When she called him last night, her voice was calm, but he could tell that she was shaken …and furious. Fahd had found her, was already stalking her, and she knew it was only a matter of time until he chose to meet her face to face. When it happens, she wants it to be on her terms, and she needs his help to do it.

He can feel the anger seething in her, can sense her eagerness for the coming fight. She welcomes this confrontation. She needs it. She needs to face down this man who haunts her dreams with memories of death and torture and Clayton Webb's agonized screams. She needs to put those memories –and the man who caused them—to an end. So does Webb, he realizes, and he thinks it a pity that Sadik Fahd can die only once.

He turns away from the window and drops back into his chair. Removing his glasses, he pinches the bridge of his nose in a futile attempt to ward off the migraine that is already taking hold. He has to go downstairs to the briefing soon, and he needs to be able to think clearly tonight. He reaches for the bottle that he keeps handy in his desk drawer, and pauses as his cell phone trills softly from his inside breast pocket. Reaching for the phone instead of the Excedrin, he flips it open and answers sharply.

"Kershaw."

"You really shouldn't growl," Catherine Gale's voice, soft and soothing, chides him slightly. "It makes you sound like a grouchy old lion."

"I _feel_ like a grouchy old lion," he grumbles, and leans back into his chair. Closing his eyes, he rests his head against the soft leather padding of the chair and tries to regroup his scattered thoughts to focus on the issue at hand.

"What's the verdict?" He asks.

"Stand your ground," She advises, "but only where our agent is concerned." She does not know the particulars. He has only told her what she needs to know to advise him on their legal standing. 

 "We are entitled to handle our asset directly. That means our wire and our tape. Let the FBI call the shots on everything else. They decide when to go in, and their people make the bust."

"So you're saying let them grab the glory?" There is a small hint of wry amusement in his voice.

"The bullets too," Catherine says practically. "Don't mess with them on this one, Harry. It's their turf. Beyond supervising our own agent, we don't have a leg to stand on. If I were you, I'd let them grab all the glory they want."

"Catherine, they can grab my ass for all I care, so long as we get this bastard and the information he has."

"I'll remember you said that when you come complaining to me because they won't let us interrogate him directly." She sighs. "Take what you can get, but you have to remember, the law's in their favor this time."

He snorts softly and ends the call, dimly aware that his impending headache has receded. Perhaps it was the soft tones of Catherine's voice, or the gentle humor that she somehow always managed to put him in. More likely, it was the fact that he had finally been told something that he wanted to hear. Whatever it was, the vise that had been clamping about his temples has eased. Reaching for his glasses, he puts them on and glances at his watch. It's time to go downstairs.

Rising from his desk, he exits his office and imparts a few quiet directions to his administrative assistant before leaving. As he waits for the elevator, he catches a glimpse his own reflection in the mirrored steel of the doors. He studies the image of the man who stands before him. A lion, Catherine called him, a grouchy old lion. He takes in the haggard lines of the face, the blonde hair paling to silver, the neatly trimmed moustache, threaded with patches of gray, and supposes that it is an apt description. He feels very much like a circus lion, old and toothless and content to sleep in the sun most of the time, but still able to roar and pace the confines of his cage with ferocity when roused.

The elevator chimes softly as the doors open before him and he steps inside, taking his contemplations with him. Three floors below him, Sarah Mackenzie is meeting with Gabe Stone and a joint CIA/FBI task force. Somewhere, out beyond Langley's locked and guarded gates, Sadik Fahd waits for her. And half a world away, Clayton Webb is likely cursing him with promises of eternal damnation as he desperately tries to reach her side in time.

For once, he is glad of his decision to send Webb abroad. He doubts that he could have handled this situation. Webb's objectivity is compromised. She is too precious to him to risk, and he knows that Webb would have done everything in his power to prevent her from participating in this operation, even though it is their best chance to nail Sadik. The decision to put Webb back in the game was a tough call to make. Physically he's more than recovered, but mentally and emotionally he's still fragile, and he's not ready for these stakes.

He can only pray that Sarah Mackenzie is. He told Stone that she was "one of theirs" and he is surprised at his own strength in that conviction. As far as he is concerned, her actions in Paraguay have earned her that right. The fact that she's Clayton Webb's girlfriend has nothing to do with it. –Or not much, anyway. Whether or not she realizes it, tonight she belongs to him.

He steps off the elevator to the main floor of the building and crosses the lobby where a few of the FBI personnel are filing in through the front doors. He pauses a moment, to exchange a polite greeting with his counterpart from the FBI and nods down the corridor where the rest of the Task Force is filtering into one of the conference rooms. He moves after them, but his step slows as he passes the memorial wall and he pauses a moment to let his eye travel across the row of stars freshly chiseled into the cold gray stone. Reaching out, he runs his fingers across them. Each one is like scar chiseled into his own flesh. He can put a face with almost a third of these stars. And of those he can put face to, a quarter of them he trained himself. He says nothing, but his mind silently calls the roll of the dead. Perhaps someday, they may be listed in the book below, but until Sadik is caught, until the leaks are plugged, until it is known if Casper Van Dyne was the only mole inside the agency, their names will remain unknown to anyone save himself and Gabriel Stone.

He hears the distinctive click of a woman's heels echoing down the hallway, and glances up to see Sarah Mackenzie, an exotic vision in winter white, as she walks into the conference room behind Stone. He watches as the rest of Stone's carefully selected team filters in behind them, his eye assessing each one. He's struck once again by how young they are. The two surveillance technicians can't be more than twenty, but they must be among the best the agency has on hand, or Stone would not have picked them. Shaking his head slightly, he follows them into the room. They are his agents ….his children.

--His lambs.

And tonight, his lambs must be lions.

***

_Alexandria__, __VA___

_Two hours later…_

            "I don't know how to tell you this, but this truck isn't big enough for the both of us." Gabe Stone's words, wry and only slightly testy, halt his restless pacing of the brief length of the panel truck. 

To any casual pedestrian making their way along the side walk to the warren of night clubs that dot the heart of Alexandria's Old Town center, it's simply another moving van. Only the well placed observers watching from their seats in the front windows of the pubs and restaurants as they sip their beers, and the well concealed snipers that watch from the roof tops, know that the truck contains not furniture and household belongings, but four men and some of the most sophisticated surveillance equipment that Uncle Sam can afford to buy. 

            He scowls at Stone. He's nervous and he's not afraid to admit it, not even with SAC Mitchell, the FBI's point man leaning against the wall like a vulture waiting for his lunch to die. "I don't like it," he tells them tersely.

            "She's doing fine," Stone assures him.

            "She's out of our line of sight," he growls.

            "She's making him a pot of tea," Mitchell puts in. "What the hell is she supposed to do? Drag the stove over to the window? I may not have your experience, but if you ask me that might make our man a touch suspicious."

            He shoots a cold-eyed glare to the FBI agent, silencing him, and listens intently to the words that whisper softly over the speakers. There is a disturbing intimacy to this conversation that makes it difficult to listen to, even as he hangs on every word. Sadik is deep into his psychological seduction, his voice caressing her with the tenderness of a lover, even as words cut to the deepest fears of her soul. It is a violation of a sort, a rape of the mind and the soul. They are sanctioned participants in this exercise, granted her express permission to see and hear all that she says and does, but even so, listening to this makes him feel as if he is somehow tainted with the same filth as her violator. This verbal battle that she wages with Sadik is a private and emotional war, not meant to be heard by others, but for her safety, and that of their country, others must listen. 

            Their alarm grows at the revelation that Fahd may have placed a bomb inside the night club, but aside from Stone's terse instructions for his agents inside the club to begin searching the building, and Mitchell's quiet order to alert the bomb squad, they take no other immediate action. Sadik, relaxed and secure in the knowledge that he holds the upper hand, is finally starting to talk. It is entirely possible that they may get more valuable information out of him in these next precious few minutes than their best interrogators will be able to gather in months of intensive interviews, but only if Sarah Mackenzie can keep him talking.

            Incredibly, she does. She's pushing him now unleashing his anger and they all stare uneasily at each other as Fahd's voice screams loudly over their headsets, ranting and spouting more of his radical Muslim rhetoric. Throughout the confrontation her tone remains collected and cool. She refuses to be afraid of him. She refuses to let him sway her. At last, his anger spent, he calms somewhat. His voice returns to its cool, superior tones as he tries again to frighten and impress her.

            _"The bomb in the nightclub isn't my mission,"_ Sadik's voice grows more distant, a sign that he is walking away from her. 

On the video monitors, a shadowy figure draws nearer to the window, silhouetting the man's figure against the window. Over the speakers, one of the snipers quietly confirms that he has a target. Once again, Mitchell tells him to hold.

            _"I wanted you to witness it so you would believe the truth," _Fahd continues, _"--that you are not safe unless you are under my protection. I can strike any where at any time: here, or in your JAG parking lot, or in the heart of __America__."_

            There is a faint rustle of fabric as Fahd seats himself on the couch. _"Perhaps you are familiar with the term Permissive Action Link?"_

            Now Sarah Mackenzie draws closer, at last coming into view. _"Yes, I know what that is. It's a triggering device for a nuclear weapon. Do you have one?"_

            _"Soon,"_ Fahd replies, and they can hear the smile in his voice as he chuckles. _"From your arsenal, bought and paid for with your diamonds."_

            _"Who's it for?"_

            "_Someone who will put it to good use,"_ Fahd replies.

"Shit! Shit! Shit!" Stone rips off his headset and flings it down onto the console, his sapphire eyes burn with the blue fire of a cutting torch. "He's got a guidance system! They've got a functional warhead."

            Something flickers in Mitchell's eyes. Al-Qaeda's possession of the missiles is obviously news to him, but he says nothing. –A cool customer, Kershaw thinks.

The FBI agent straightens away from the wall and stares down into the bank of monitors with growing interest. "Let's hope she can keep him talking. Maybe he'll tell her what he's planning to do with it."

            "No," Kershaw tells them. "He won't show all his cards to her yet. He's got to convince her of his own power first." He shakes his head. "It's too risky. We need to start moving people into position."

            Mitchell purses his lips as he thinks it over. "No," Mitchell says finally. "Let's give them another couple minutes. Maybe she can get him to tell her."

            But barely a moment later he's cursing as Sarah Mackenzie's voice rings clearly through the truck.

_"I am impressed, just bombing a night club seems out of character for you. –So when's this going to happen?"_

            _"In less than ten minutes."_

            "God Damn it!" Mitchell is scrambling for his radio as he shouts orders to his men. "All teams, this is Mitchell. Go. Go. Go. Be advised there is a bomb set to detonate in ten minutes. I repeat…."

            At the same time Stone is also droning calmly into his own microphone as he finishes replacing his headset. "Teams four, seven and nine, be advised we have confirmation of a bomb. Cordova," he continues, speaking to his duo inside the club, "get to the manager and start evacuation procedures… Yoshi, keep looking and find that goddamned device…"

            "…and somebody get the damned bomb squad in here ASAP!" Mitchell snaps as he releases the key on his radio.

            His hand is already on the door of the panel truck throwing the locks even as Mitchell strides forward to help him throw it open. He pauses on the tailgate only long enough to shoot a glance in Stone's direction. 

The big man nods once. "Go," he says quietly before turning back to his monitors. 

            The sound of the gunshots turns the rushing blood in his veins to ice as the door gives way and FBI's combat team swarms into the apartment. Their shouts are reassuring, but he follows them in slowly, half afraid of what he might find as he rounds the corner into the living room.

            "Stand down, Colonel." The team leader barks.

            She stands, half dazed, in the middle of the room. The gun dangles from her nerveless fingers. Sadik Fahd lies dead at her feet, a small neat hole in the center of his forehead and a barrage of assault rifles pointed at him should he suddenly decide to resurrect.

            He approaches her quietly, taking care not to startle her. 

"It's over," she says, passing him the gun without really looking at him. He takes in the torn blouse, the glassy eyes and battered features. It's obvious that she is still in shock..

            "Are you all right?" She nods distantly, her eyes still fixed upon dead man.

            "Yeah," the word is a barely exhaled breath. She slowly rotates her neck and grabs her shoulder as the adrenaline begins to wear off and the pain begins to take hold. That bare shoulder of hers will likely be several different colors by morning.

            He sets the gun down on the coffee table and takes her white wool coat from the sofa. He drapes it carefully about her shoulders, wrapping her in it as he would a china doll.

            "I'm sorry," she murmurs, her voice as vacant as her eyes as she pulls the coat more tightly around her.

            "For what?" he asks gently.

            "For killing him. He could have told us who he was getting the PAL from."

            "He could have killed you first," he reminds her, his voice as soft as carded cotton. But it seems to have little impact on her as she give the corpse a final look and then turns and leaves the apartment.

            He watches her go with a thoughtful expression. What she said was true, but he cannot bring himself to blame her. He holds no small share of the guilt for this himself. He was the one who arranged for Webb to be sent to South America without knowing the real reason why. He is the one who unintentionally saw Webb's self-confidence destroyed along with his career. He is the one who approved Webb's request to bring in people from outside the agency for the Paraguay mission, even though he suspected Webb's reasons for choosing her might be more personal than professional.

            He notices the sudden hesitation in her stride and sees her stop to study her own reflection in the large, full length mirror. She looks as if she does not recognize the woman who stares back at her. Perhaps she doesn't. He knows that she will need time to deal with this. So will Webb. He intends to see that they get it. After all, this is partly his fault, too.

            He was the one who sent them into hell. He must see them out again.

            He stares down into the pale and oddly artificial features of the terrorist. So this is the lynx. Maybe that explains why he looks like he's auditioning for Siegfried & Roy. He doesn't know and he really doesn't care. The bastard is dead and that is all that matters.

He studies the neat round hole precisely centered in the middle of Sadik's forehead, and admires Col. Mackenzie's handiwork. Unfortunately, he can take little satisfaction from it, for he knows that this is not the end, but merely another beginning. They have a warhead to find and diamonds to track. They still must determine whether Casper Van Dyne was a traitor or a hero. And if he was a hero, then they must find the one who betrayed him –the one who lurks within their own walls.

            Turning his back squarely upon the dead man, he follows Sarah Mackenzie out into the cold dampness of the night.

            He ensconces her gently in the front seat of his Crown Victoria and asks her to wait for him a moment as he steps back up into the panel truck to speak with Stone.

            "She all right?" Stone asks, his gaze flicking to the pale woman bundled into the front seat of the Ford sedan.

            "No," he answers honestly, but does not elaborate. Instead, he squints at his Director of Operations through slightly smudged spectacles. "You called?"

            Stone nods. "Yeah," he says gruffly, "I got something you ought to hear …before the Feds get back."

            He frowns and follows Stone deeper into the truck. Accepting the headphones that are handed to him, he puts them on as Stone barks to the technician.

            "Play it."

            The sounds of a struggle are amplified in the headphones. Grunts of pain and sharp gasping breaths are followed by crashing furniture and the sound of something metallic clattering to the floor. –Probably a gun. --Another blow, a grunt of pain and Sarah Mackenzie's voice, harsh and determined, gasps angrily in his ears.

            _"I'm not weak,"_ …thud. 

_"I'm not barren,"_ …thud. 

_"And I'm not a whore." _…thud.

Sadik gasps in pain, followed by the sound of an increasingly desperate struggle.  A moment later, a gunshot pierces the air and Sarah Mackenzie's voice, breathless with the struggle and icy with anger can clearly be heard.

            _"That was for Harm."_

            A breath. A pause.

            _"This one's for Clayton Webb."_

            The second shot …and silence, followed by sound of the door crashing in on its hinges. He raises his eyes to Stone's looking for confirmation of what he is hearing. Stone nods. He turns and spares a quick glance back to his car, and the woman sitting motionless within it.

            He feels Stone's eyes upon him, waiting for his decision. He turns back to the console and looks down at the tech, a young, sandy-haired kid who doesn't look old enough to have graduated high school.

            "Lose everything she says after the struggle starts, but keep the gunshots. Then burn a copy and hand it off to Mitchell."

            Stone looks sharply at the kid. "You heard the man."

            The tech nods and hunches over his keyboard as he sets to work. It's simply one more thing the Feds don't need to know.

            He stays with her through the entire debriefing, though he does not ask a single question. Instead, he sits quietly at the end of the long conference table, drinking cup after cup of increasingly bitter coffee as Stone leads the interview with a team of analysts and investigators throwing in their own questions here and there. His silent presence serves a two-fold purpose, reminding the interviewers of the gravity of the situation even as it provides her an unspoken support. She is cool and controlled throughout the debriefing, answering every question directly, and with as much detail as she can possibly recall until he sees the exhaustion begin to take hold of her and finally ends the interview with a quiet, "I think that's enough for tonight, gentlemen."

            There will be more questions tomorrow, of course. JAG Headquarters has already been contacted and apprised of the situation so that Chegwidden will know not to expect her. He informs her of this as they walk from the main building into the silence of the night that is already beginning to lighten with the first hints of morning. She merely nods in response, and allows him to hand her into his waiting limo without as much as a protest or thought of her own car, parked in the visitor lot.

            They are silent on the drive back to her apartment, and it only deepens as he walks her up to her apartment and sees her inside. She pauses on the edge of her threshold, and studies him for a long moment.

            "Thank you," she says at last.

            He nods and fishes in his pocket for a card. He places it deliberately in her hand. "This is my private line," he says, and wraps her fingers about the small slip of expensive stock. "If you need anything, don't hesitate to call."

            She looks down at the card. "Will you tell Clay what's happened?" Her words are almost a whisper.

            "Do you want me to?"

            She hesitates, bites her lip, and nods.

            "What will you tell him?" She asks, her suspicion of the agency flaring once more, and he knows that she is thinking of the shooting and the questions she expected that were never asked.

            "I'll tell him that Sadik is dead …and that you're safe."

            He sees the surprise that flickers in her eyes. "That's all?"

            He shrugs. "It's only fair. It's all I can tell you about him."

            Her eyes travel intently over his face, as if trying to see past the age, the money and the polished manners to the man that lurks inside. He knows what she must see in him, just as he knows what she is really seeking.

            She's looking for the key to Clayton Webb.

            "How can you live like this?" She asks him. There is no accusation in her tone. Rather, it's a genuine curiosity tinged with desperation and he realizes that it's something which she truly needs to know …for both herself and for Webb.

            The hell of it is that it's a question he does not have the answer to. Instead, all he can offer her is a small, sad, but understanding smile as he turns to go.

            "Not all of us can," he says, and walks away.

            Outside on the stoop of her building, he pulls the cell phone from the inside breast pocket of his suit jacket and stops to dial the number that has appeared so regularly on his incoming call list. It rings steadily until at last a voice, harried and sharp with exasperation barks into his ear.

            "Blaisdell."

            "Alan," he says pleasantly, as if he were calling to chat about the weather.

            The response is immediate. "God damn it, Harry, you've gotta do something about Webb! I don't know who the hell you talked to over at State and DOD, but after you cut off his access to military and commercial flights, he hasn't let up. He's drivin' my people nuts! He made O'Neill cry today. …_O'Neill_ for Christ's sake! And she wouldn't cry if you shot her dog! I'm tellin' ya, chief, this has gotta stop."

            "Where is he now?" He steps out on the curb and makes his way to the limo. He half turns as he walks, his gaze traveling to the lighted window on the second floor. He can just make out the figure of Sarah Mackenzie, removing her coat and walking listlessly to the window. She stands and looks out to the coming dawn.

            The connection is bad, and Blaisdell's voice is faint, but he can still make out the Air Wing Chief's sigh. "I put him on a C-130 that's making a drop over Syria and told him it would be landing in Turkey."

            "Where's it really going?"

            "To one of our little hidey holes in the ass end of nowhere. No cars, no roads, just an airstrip and the only things that land there belong to us. Needless to say, he's gonna be pissed, but I don't know what in the hell else to do with him."

            As the car door closes behind him, he casts another glance up to Sarah Mackenzie's lighted window. She stands there for a moment, her arms wrapped tightly about herself looking down to the street. He keeps his eyes upon her as the car starts to pull away from the curb, and is glad of it when he catches the massive shudder that suddenly racks her body as the sobs begin to take her. The car pulls out into the street removing her from view, but in his minds' eye he can picture her, standing there in that lonely apartment and sobbing with the uncontrollable force of her rage, and fear and grief.

            He himself feels oddly bereft as the limo picks up speed, making its way back to the solitary brownstone in the heart of Alexandria. But as he listens to the crackling static that hisses across his poor connection to Blaisdell, he knows that there is nothing he can do for her. 

Nothing, that is, except this. 

            "Alright, Alan," he says quietly. "Bring him home."

            He folds the phone and puts it back into his pocket, his mind still turning with the events of this night and the rubble of emotions and information they must pick through in order to proceed. He hopes that she will sleep. There will be more questions tomorrow, but he intends to see her part in the matter quickly resolved.

            She needs to heal. So does Webb. Perhaps they can heal each other. But as the car carries him away into the brightening dawn, he thinks of her question to him …and his response:

_            "…How can you live like this?"_

_            "…Not all of us can."_

            And he wonders if he has done the right thing.


End file.
